you weren’t home when he got it done, and maybe that made it easier.

said you were out shopping, some girls day thing — “don’t wait up 🛍️💋.”

he didn’t mind... meant you weren’t there to hover. to bite your lip when the needle buzzed. to ask what he was getting like he didn’t already plan it days ago. meant no one in the room but him, the artist, and the reason he was even getting inked at all.

he didn’t even tell you what he booked in for. he let you think it was something light. just a little wrist piece. something fine-line. aesthetic. you even replied, “send me pics” — like he was gonna tell you before it healed.

and yeah, he got that wrist one too.

a little fairy. small. wings curled in. some private joke you made months ago when you said you looked like one, pissed in a mirror, lashes stuck together and heels in hand. he remembered... even if you didn’t.

but that wasn’t the one that mattered.

it was the other one. the one he didn’t warn you about. the one he didn’t even flinch for. burned quiet into his skin.

fourth finger. left hand. inside. soft spot of skin. your name — no caps, no hearts, no script. just the letters. plain. permanent. like he meant it.

after the artist left, he sat with it for a while. on the edge of the bed, towel around his waist, wrap still clinging to the ink. rubbing over the cling film like he was checking if it felt different yet.

it didn’t... not right away.

but he knew it would... when you saw it. when your hand reached for his, like it always did without thinking. when your lips brushed that finger the way they always did mid-kiss. when your voice caught for just half a second before you said anything.

he didn’t wait for that though.

he took a photo — nothing fancy. just his hand, pinky tucked a little, focus on that thin, red name stamped inside the finger. a small part of him wondered if you’d think it was fake.

so he sent a voice note too.

sat back against the pillows, chain still cold from the AC, voice lazy from the pain and the high and the quiet buzz of doing something that felt heavier than it looked.

he hit record. let it sit for a sec... then spoke like you were right there, even though you weren’t.

— don’t get gassed, but i did a thing.

a pause, low breath, like he was thinking about smiling but didn’t.

— since you been actin’ like i’m not your man lately, figured i’d remind you who’s wearin your name now... and before you start runnin your mouth — yeah, it’s the ring finger... yeah, it’s permanent... and nah, i don’t regret it, babe.

another pause, voice dipping slightly.

— so go on... come home. see if it looks better in person...

and the truth was — he didn’t care what you said back.

didn’t need a heart emoji or some corny “omg” voice note. didn’t need your voice shaking on facetime. didn’t need the fake outrage or the little “what the hell” or the nervous laugh you always gave when he did something too serious too fast.

he just needed you to know. that he’d done it. on purpose. without telling anyone. without needing you to post it or brag about it. no grand gesture.

cause you weren’t some girl he was tryna flex for. you were the one he inked for. the one he marked soft, where only you'd see...